


Don't Mess With Mr. Booze

by jujitsuelf



Category: The Losers (2010), The Losers (Comic), The Losers - All Media Types
Genre: Tattoos, never let the Losers get drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-14
Updated: 2012-04-14
Packaged: 2017-11-03 15:27:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/382966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jujitsuelf/pseuds/jujitsuelf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's kind of a Losers ritual, but you mix those boys with alcohol and things are never going to end prettily now are they?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Mess With Mr. Booze

A/N – This only happened because I was writing angst and I needed a little light relief. Thanks to Cougar's Catnip and Jodi for the read-throughs. All mistakes are mine.

No warnings, smut free, only a little naughty language, but they are soldiers, so give 'em a break.

Thanks for reading!

Disclaimer – All publicly recognizable characters, settings etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended

** ** **

Pooch clung onto the bar and prayed that the world would stop spinning long enough for him to down the shot that had just been slammed in front of him. He rubbed his bleary eyes and wondered what was actually in the glass, as it seemed to be glowing faintly green. Sincerely hoping that Jensen hadn't decided they all needed another absinthe-binge, he reached out and picked up the small glass shakily. 

Somehow he raised it to his mouth and poured it down his already raw throat in one smooth movement. Oh God, whatever it was burned worse than the rotgut Clay had insisted on, the colonel had said, 'only sissy girls refused to drink classic American booze, and he wasn't working with no sissy girls, so drink it or else'. 

That had been the smoothest single malt in comparison to the green poison Jensen had ordered for them all. Pooch swore and promised himself that as soon as he could see straight, he would kick Jensen's lily-white ass all the way into the middle of next week.

To his left, the white boy in question was giggling manically and apparently doing some kind of soft shoe shuffle that was making Clay guffaw. Pooch tried to remember how many drinks they'd actually had by now, he frowned and counted on his fingers. Clay had started it with the rotgut, followed by Roque's vodka, Cougar's tequila, his own Jack Daniels, Jensen's Martini (the fool had said he felt like being James Bond for a night, with Cougar as the obligatory Bond girl, as he had the longest hair). Then there were more whiskeys, and some rum if his memory didn't deceive him. Then Jensen had thrown his wallet on the bar and demanded something with a bizarre name, which had culminated in shot glasses of the green stuff Pooch had just thrown down his neck.

Staggering and swearing again, Pooch grabbed Jensen's sleeve and growled, “Wha' was 'at? Wha' did I jus' drink?”

“Beats th' fuck outta me,” Jensen giggled, “S'not what I ordered, but it was fun. Was green!” he hiccuped and grimaced, “Oh God, don' feel good.”

Clay's hands latched onto Jensen's lapels and held him upright as the younger man looked like he was about to slide to the floor.

“No you don', soldier. You stay on your feet, got it?” the colonel slurred, “Fallin' down's for civilians, an' you not a civilian.” he turned and bellowed to the bar in general, “Roque!”

“What?” Roque responded from a place near Clay's elbow, where he was standing, bent at the waist, resting his forehead on the bar. 

Clay visibly jumped, then turned back to the bar and said, “S'okay, don' panic, I found him. At ease, everybody.”

Everyone ignored him, but edged a few more feet away from the group of soldiers in the corner, who were already well past drunk and heading toward alcohol poisoning.

Clay sprawled himself across Roque's back, hugging him for all he was worth. “You're the best captain ever, you know tha'?” he muttered, a stupid grin on his face.

“Get off me,” Roque responded, not lifting his head from the bar, as he was slightly afraid it would fall off if he tried.

Clay got off the captain and stood, sulking until Jensen shoved another glass of rum in his hand. The older officer looked surprised but shrugged and drank it anyway, then turned to Jensen and slurred, “You, you are aweshome. And tall. Very tall, not as tall as me, but taller 'an him,” he jerked his head toward Cougar, “he's short. But sniper-y.” Clay chuckled, “Sniper-y, good word...”

Jensen smiled tolerantly and staggered the three steps to where Cougar stood, back to the bar, hat pulled right down over his eyes. The tech op tapped Cougar's chest and said, “Knock knock, anyone in?”

Cougar didn't answer, just turned to the bartender and ordered a round of beers. Jensen looked at his in dismay as the sniper placed it in his hand. “I don' feel too good, Cougs,” he said pathetically.

“Drink it,” was Cougar's only reply. Jensen sighed and drank it. 

This was one of the Losers' rituals. Each time they were in the USA for one of their birthdays, they would find a bar that hadn't banned them from entering yet, and stay there until one of them passed out. Then, the unfortunate unconscious Loser was at the mercy of the rest of the team until the next day. So far this had resulted in a few unplanned tattoos and a couple of arrests for public indecency. Plus there was that one bizarre incident in Vegas where Roque had been stuffed into something that looked suspiciously like a wedding dress and was about to enter the drive-through chapel with Pooch when Clay had dragged them both out and thrown them at Cougar and Jensen respectively, howling with laughter when Cougar tried to catch Roque and ended up on his ass with the wedding dress-clad captain on top of him. When Jensen had plaintively asked why they did this, after discovering a new tattoo on his shoulder, (seriously, a bull, was that the best his team could come up with?), Clay had just stared at him and said, “Because we're still alive and we can.”

Tonight was Clay's birthday, he wouldn't reveal his age, so Jensen had made a big badge with 'Birthday Boy – I'm 65!' on it. When he saw it, not only had he refused to wear it, Clay had also promised Jensen he'd make him do CAPE till he threw up the next day. Looking at the corporal now, Cougar didn't think it would take too long, he'd be puking his guts out before he'd done twenty push-ups.

Cougar also thought that the world was starting to spin a little bit too fast for his liking. He shuffled his feet further apart and made sure they were firmly planted on the floor, there, that would ensure he stayed upright for a while longer.

Next to him, Jensen was quietly serenading his beer bottle, staring down into it and giggling occasionally. The young tech suddenly straightened up, a move Cougar heartily admired him for as there was no way he'd be attempting it anytime soon, and announced loudly, “I gotta take a leak.”

Pooch grabbed Jensen's shoulders and pointed him toward the restrooms, saying as he did so, “Go! Quick, 'fore its too late again.” 

Jensen's already flushed cheeks went red and he mumbled as he staggered toward the bathroom, “God, you do that once and they never let you forget it...”

Clay seemed to notice that one of his men was AWOL as he looked round with unfocussed eyes and said, “Where's my tech? Je'sen, where're you gone?” Poking Roque determinedly with a forefinger, he laid his head on the bar alongside the captain's and said morosely, “Lost Je'sen, we're a man down a'ready.”

“Don't care,” Roque muttered into the bar, “shut the fuck up and lemme die in peace.”

Clay chuckled and said, “S'no way to talk to a superior. If you pass out first I'm gonna drag your ass onto the parade ground and tie you to the flagpole in your underwear. Tha'll teach you t'show proper respect to senior officers.”

Roque didn't bother to speak, merely lifting a hand and elegantly extending his middle finger in reply. Clay laughed again, then said, “Still lost Jensen, gotta go find 'im. Could be in trouble.”

Pooch slurred, “S'only in the john, colonel. Can't be in trouble in there.”

Cougar said without realizing he was speaking, “S'Jensen we're talking about, he can get in trouble anywhere.”

Clay stared at his sniper like he'd only just noticed he was there, then beamed and slapped him on the shoulder in the typical manly way, making the slighter man stumble forward and lose his precariously-perched hat. The journey down to the floor to collect said hat was a perilous one, fraught with danger as Cougar's balance was not functioning at its usual level. However, after a couple of staggers and a helping hand from Pooch, he made it back up to the vertical again, and glared at his commanding officer who gave him a butter-wouldn't-melt grin in return.

“Right,” Clay rumbled, “we got a new mission. Gotta find Jensen 'fore he does somethin' stupid. And if he's passed out, I call dibs on what tat he gets this time.”

Roque unwillingly left the safety of the bar as Clay hooked a hand into his shirt collar and pulled him toward the bathroom. Cougar and Pooch each made their own way there, somehow ending up with their arms round each other's shoulders, holding one another up, before they'd taken a dozen steps.

The restroom was quiet after the bustle of the bar and Roque sighed in relief, turning to the wall to rest his head against the cool tiles. “What is it with you and leaning on stuff?” Pooch muttered at him, trying to untangle himself from Cougar, as the need to use the facilities had overtaken him at an alarming rate.

All three men jumped as Clay suddenly yelled, “Jensen! You in here?” in his best, carry across a windy parade ground voice. A low groan came from the end stall and they staggered toward it, Pooch collapsing into the first stall he passed with a moan of relieved joy.

Jensen was on the floor, in the time honored pose, head handing over the toilet bowl, with a very sorry for himself expression on his face. “I'm still conscious,” he managed to mumble before another bout of retching made him hang onto the toilet so hard his knuckles turned white. When it subsided, he gasped for breath and looked up at Clay, saying defiantly, “You are not slapping another bull on my pale hide tonight...sir.”

Clay looked almost paternally proud as he hauled the young man to his feet. “Good work soldier, you made room for more drinks.” Slinging an arm round Jensen's shoulders, he turned the tech toward the door before stopping mid-step. Cougar had been leaning back against the wall, and was now slowly sliding down it. He ended up in a crumpled heap on the floor, his hat still miraculously in place. Pooch came out of his stall with a beatific smile on his face and stopped dead when he noticed Cougar, letting out an evil cackle as he said, “Man down, colonel. I think our sniper's out for the count.”

Roque had dragged himself away from his nice cool wall and came to stare at the unconscious sergeant. A grin slid onto his face as he looked at Clay and said, “You know, he doesn't have nearly enough tattoos.”

“We should remedy that,” Clay agreed.

“We're being good friends, helping him out,” Jensen added.

“I would say I'll drive, but a) I don' think I should be allowed on th' road in this condition, an' b) I got no idea where the closest tattoo place is,” Pooch slurred, hanging on to the stall door as the world slanted to an alarming angle.

“I know one,” Roque leered, eyes glinting with mischief. “S'not far, we can carry him.”

Between them, Clay and Roque managed to catch hold of Cougar's shoulder and feet and carried him out of the bar, with Jensen and Pooch clearing a path for them. The sniper was a skinny dude, but when he was unconscious he weighed a freakin' ton, Clay moaned to himself. 

Roque directed them to a tattoo parlor a few streets away. Both he and Clay were puffing and trying to catch their breath by the time they got there, and they dumped Cougar unceremoniously on the shop floor as soon as the owner had opened the door.

A few bills passed between Roque and the tattoo artist, who didn't seem at all surprised to be asked to put a new design on an unconscious soldier. 

“No problem,” the man shrugged, “What design do you want?”

Conspiratorial looks were exchanged and there was much furious whispering between the four other soldiers as they tried to decide what would be a suitable forfeit for Cougar to live with. Jensen finally said, “I got it!” and frantically searched his pockets for something. Pulling out his phone, he scrolled through it until he found what he was looking for and held it out to the tattoo artist. “Can you do that? In those colors?”

“Yeah, sure,” the artist shrugged again, “Where should I put it?”

Jensen's grin was pure evil as he prodded Cougar over onto his face with his boot. He pointed out where the new tat should be placed and Pooch howled with glee. The artist decided that he'd been asked to draw weirder things in stranger circumstances so didn't bother to worry about whether the unconscious man wanted this particular design in that particular place.

Jensen and Clay lifted Cougar and laid him face down on the table, then looked at each other thoughtfully. “Well I guess technically I am his best friend,” Jensen said, “so maybe I should be the one to get his pants off.” 

Clay stepped back, holding up both hands in a 'hey, don't involve me in this' manner. “Be my guest,” he rumbled.

Pooch rolled Cougar onto his side to give Jensen access to his belt, then chuckled non-stop as the tech carefully pulled off Cougar's pants, edging them down till they were around his knees. Jensen's blue eyes twinkled as he looked at Clay with a raised eyebrow, before twanging the waistband of Cougar's boxers. Clay grinned and waved a hand, “Get on with it soldier, it's not like we haven't seen each other buck naked before now.”

“Very true, sir,” Jensen agreed, “although I'd pay good money to forget the image of Pooch pulling porcupine quills out of Roque's bare butt. That's burned into my memory forever, and I consider myself mentally scarred because of it.”

Roque growled and Jensen wisely shut up, applying himself instead to the job of pulling Cougar's boxers down, leaving his ass with no protection from the artist's pen.

“Sure you want it there?” the guy asked, twirling a normal pen between his fingers, ready to draw the outline of the design Jensen had requested, on Cougar's left buttock. 

“Oh God, yes,” Pooch hiccuped, still practically insensible with merriment.

“'kay,” the man said, settling down to his task, “have a seat, this could take a while.”

The four still conscious Losers collapsed in the squashy chairs the artist had indicated, each one gratefully groaning as they sank into the soft cushions.

Pooch was asleep by the time Cougar's new tattoo was finished, and had to be forcibly shaken before he'd wake up enough to walk. Clay was swaying on his feet as he dragged out his wallet and paid the artist. Jensen and Roque were the only ones still more or less stable on their legs so they carried Cougar between them, Jensen complaining at length about having to deal with his feet, moaning to all and sundry, “His hair smells so pretty, why do I have to be down here with his freakin' feet? You know he has Athlete's Foot don't you? If I get it I'll never ever let you forget that it's your fault because you wouldn't let me carry his top half, noooo you had to shove me down here with his stinky boots.”

“Jensen,” Roque snarled, “shut up before I have to drop my sniper and hurt you.”

Jensen stuck out his tongue at the captain but cleverly shut up for a while before saying, “Does anyone know where the fuck we're going?”

“I was following you,” Roque said indignantly.

“Well I was following you,” Jensen said with exaggerated patience, “So where the hell are we?”

“Not far from my place,” Clay mumbled from behind them, where he and Pooch were staggering along at a snail's pace. “You can crash there on the condition that you all forget my address the second you leave. No coming round to visit, ever.”

Jensen wiped imaginary sweat from his brow, dropping one of Cougar's feet in the process and said, “Thank God for our fearless leader. I thought we were going to have to go back on post like this.”

“Shut up and keep walking,” Clay grumbled.

After many wrong turns and pathetic cries of “Are we there yet?” from Jensen, they finally found Clay's apartment building. His apartment was actually pretty nice, in a manly kind of way, all dark furniture and deep carpets.

Cougar was dropped on his face on the sofa, still completely unconscious. Pooch made a beeline for the bathroom and Roque sank into the recliner while Jensen lay on the floor and tried to make a carpet angel. Clay just shook his head and wandered into the kitchen mumbling to himself, “Who the hell did I piss off enough to end up with this bunch?”

As he made a pot of ferociously strong coffee, Clay heard his team arguing over who got to sleep where. Jensen had pulled out his little-boy-lost voice and was trying to convince Roque to give up the recliner. He snorted, kid had no chance. Carrying the coffee out into the living room he said firmly, “Roque gets the sofa, I get the recliner, seniority has it's perks. Pooch can have the floor here and Jensen, you get Cougar into my bed, you can have the bedroom floor.”

“You sure, sir?” Jensen asked, surprised, “You don't want your own bed?”

“Of course I do, you fucking idiot,” Clay growled, “but I only just bought this carpet, so I'd rather Cougar throw up on the old bedroom one.”

Jensen's mouth made a little 'O' of understanding and he started to heave Cougar off of the sofa. With Pooch's help they toppled the sniper into Clay's bed, making sure his head was near the edge in case he did throw up, no point ruining the sheets too.

Before long, Clay, Roque and Pooch were asleep, with Clay and Roque apparently competing for the title of loudest snorer of the year. Jensen wrapped himself in a blanket and pummeled a cushion into a comfortable shape before flopping his head down on it. He grinned to himself, the hangover in the morning would be absolute murder but it was going to be hilarious to see Cougar's reaction to his new ink.

** ** **

Sunlight hit Cougar straight in the face and he moaned. He wasn't even properly awake yet and already his head was pounding. He tried to rub his eyes but found that he couldn't move his hand, he attempted to move the other but found that one immobile too. Giving a mental eyeroll, as a real one was just too painful to contemplate, he strained every muscle he possessed and opened his eyes a tiny amount. 

He couldn't see anything beyond the white pillow his face was resting on, so he summoned up all his courage and moved his head slightly, groaning in pain as he did so. His courage was rewarded as he saw the reason for his enforced immobility. Each of his wrists were handcuffed to a wooden bedframe. He tried to remember getting into a bed but came up blank and assumed that he'd been put there while he was unconscious. He tugged at the cuffs and wished he had the energy to growl in frustration as it became painfully obvious that he was going nowhere. As it was he just moaned again and wondered what had been done to him after he'd passed out the night before.

Someone else groaned and Cougar tried to open his eyes enough to see who it was. He couldn't manage it, it was just too painful to move his eyelids. Another groan came from below him and he recognized the voice.

“Jensen?” he croaked, his voice scratchy and low.

“Oh God,” came Jensen's voice, “Kill me, please.”

“Jensen,” Cougar said, more insistently, “get up here.”

A hand appeared on the mattress and Jensen's bloodshot eyes peeked over the edge at Cougar. His hair was all over the place and it looked like he'd been drooling in his sleep as his cheek was shiny and wet. “Oh God,” he said again, closing his eyes and putting a hand to his head, “I feel like shit.”

“Good,” Cougar mumbled unkindly, “fuckin' lemme go.” He tugged on the cuffs again to show Jensen what he meant, a hungover Jake was not usually an intelligent one.

“Can't,” Jensen groaned, massaging his aching head, “Clay's got the keys.”

“Get Clay then,” Cougar snarled. 

“Can't, head hurts” Jensen almost whined, resting his face on the bed next to Cougar's shoulder.

Cougar growled again and said, “What did you do to me? Why am I handcuffed to a bed, and why the fuck does my ass hurt?”

A wicked, and slightly guilty grin split Jensen's face and he replied, “We got you new ink after you passed out, it's on your ass, that's why it hurts at the moment, and we had to cuff you to the bed because you kept rolling onto your back and moaning that your butt hurt too much to lie on. Blame Clay, I didn't come up with the idea of handcuffs, it was all him, s'why he's got the keys.”

Cougar pressed his face into the pillow and moaned again, he'd almost expected new ink as a forfeit for passing out first, but he hadn't been prepared for it being on his ass. “What ink did you get?” he muttered.

“Oh, you're gonna love it,” Jensen grinned, then clutched at his head again, “shit, I feel bad.”

“Get Clay,” Cougar said from the depths of his pillow, “I got to get to the bathroom.”

“Urgh,” Jensen wrinkled his nose, “you know how to say the one thing that'll make me feel sorry for you don't you? Fiiine, I'll get Clay, but if my head falls off when I move it's your fault.”

For a second Jensen considered clambering to his feet, then dismissed this idea as pure folly, instead being satisfied with crawling to the door on all fours. As he left the bedroom he said, “I'll come back in a sec, just stay there.” Laughing softly at his own pun, he crawled off in search of Clay, and handcuff keys.

** ** **

Pooch was sprawled on the floor, Clay was half hanging off the recliner and Roque had his face buried in the sofa cushions. Jensen wished he had a camera but his phone was who knew where, so he made do with just taking a mental image of the three men, that would be amusing later when he didn't feel so very very sick.

Crawling across to Clay, Jensen started searching his pockets. He'd just touched Clay's right pant pocket, when a vice-like grip closed on his throat and a husky voice said, “Stop, right the fuck now.”

Jensen gasped for breath and tried to peel Clay's fingers away from his windpipe, but it was like trying to move a freakin' statue. He settled for choking out, “Sir, its me, let go!”

Clay's grip relaxed a little, and Jensen backed away, rubbing his now aching neck as well as his still pounding head. Bleary eyes blinked at the tech and Clay whispered, “Je'sen? Tha' you?”

“Yes its me, you tryin' to kill me?” Jensen said resentfully.

“Stop. Shouting,” Clay said in a dangerous voice.

“Give. Me. The. Keys,” Jensen replied.

“Keys?” Clay's voice was utterly confused, “What keys?”

“Handcuffs, Cougar, bed,” Jensen moaned, wishing he could just lie down and quietly die on Clay's carpet, but guessing that it would look bad on his military record.

“Oh,” Clay dug in his pockets and produced two small keys, “here. Now fuck off and be quiet.”

“Fine,” Jensen grumbled as he started his tortuous journey back to the bedroom, “I'm just gonna go throw up all over your bathroom...sir.”

But Clay had flopped back into his half on-half off the recliner position and wasn't listening.

Jensen was proud of himself for reaching the bedroom door in such quick time, and he hadn't had to stop to puke, he was doing well and was a credit to the army.

Cougar was still on the bed, obviously, and was swearing softly in Spanish. Jensen couldn't catch all of it, but what he did understand seemed to be a methodical stream of insults to every ancestor he could think of, for each of his team-mates.

Jensen heard his own parentage being called into question and said, “Hey, stop it or I'm leaving you there all day.”

The glare that Cougar shot him would have made lesser men turn tail and run. Luckily Jake Jensen was made of sterner stuff, and he hauled himself up on the bed, sitting by Cougar's chest. He dangled the keys in front of Cougar's face and said, “Now what do you say?”

“Let me go this second or I'll vomit in your lap,” Cougar snarled.

“Nope, try again,” Jensen grinned, tormenting Cougar was always the best fun.

“Let me go now or I'll shoot you.”

“Otra vez, amigo,” Jensen sing-songed, even though it made his head hurt it was worth it to see the fury on the sniper's face. “I'll give ya a hint, think basic manners.”

Cougar sighed and dropped his face back into the pillow. “Please,” came his muffled voice.

“Little louder, buddy, my ears are all wonky this morning,” Jensen's smile was a mile wide.

Sighing again and promising himself vengeance when the next birthday rolled around, Cougar withdrew his face from the comforting depths of the pillow and said, “Please let me go, Jake.”

“See, that wasn't so hard was it?” Jensen crowed as he released Cougar.

As soon as he was free, Cougar bolted for the bathroom and spent the next half hour worshiping the porcelain god. When he finally emerged, wiping his mouth and with a fine sheen of sweat on his green-tinged face, he took in the scene in the living room, and headed for the kitchen without a word.

Clay's cupboards and refrigerator were fairly well stocked and before long the smell of frying bacon was wafting through the apartment. Jensen took one sniff, turned white and ran for the safety of the toilet before anyone else could get there.

Clay shifted on the chair, nose twitching like some nightmarish version of a bunny. As Cougar bought the pan of meat out into the main room and waved it around, the colonel clamped a hand to his mouth and scrambled to his feet, seeing that the bathroom door was already shut, he dashed to the kitchen and was spectacularly sick in the sink.

A wicked smirk on his face, Cougar thrust the bacon pan under Pooch's chin and jiggled it a bit, making the meat jump and hiss. Pooch's dark eyes flew open and for a second he looked at Cougar in horror before clambering unsteadily to his feet. His head whipped from side to side as he obviously tried to decide where to run, kitchen or bathroom. The kitchen was closer, so he sprinted in there and had a silent shoving match with Clay over ownership of the sink. A determined Pooch was also a strong one, and very devious. Hooking Clay's ankle, he tripped his CO and claimed the sink as his own by vomiting in it until he was gasping and groaning like he was about to die.

Cougar's smirk grew more evil as he approached Roque. The captain was still slumbering peacefully, completely unaware of the suffering being visited upon his team-mates. Cougar wafted the pan under his nose, but nothing happened. He shook it and practically dunked Roque's nose into the bacon fat, but still got no reaction, the big man just slept on, mouth hanging open, a thin trail of drool hanging from one corner.

Narrowing his eyes Cougar returned to the kitchen, delicately stepping around Pooch and Clay who were both crouched on the floor clutching their aching midriffs. He broke a piece of charred bacon up into tiny slivers, trying not to heave as he did so, his own stomach was still protesting about the alcohol he'd forced into it the the night before. Scrabbling around in the fridge, he grinned as he found a box of eggs. Breaking two of them into a cup, he whisked them up and added the bacon bits.

Carrying this concoction back into the living room, he smirked at Roque once more, betting that the captain would endeavor to sleep with his mouth shut from now on. Moving swiftly, Cougar pinched Roque's nose and poured the evil mixture into his mouth, snapping his jaw shut when the cup was empty. Roque's eyes shot open and went as large as dinner plates. Cougar's wicked smirk grew as the captain tried to breathe or at least spit the vile liquid out. The sniper held on though and had the undeniable pleasure of seeing the bigger man swallow the stuff in his mouth. Stepping back, Cougar laughed softly as Roque's face screwed up into an expression of pure disgust that quickly changed to downright fear as the eggs and bacon mixture hit his unlined stomach. 

Jumping to his feet, Roque ran first to the kitchen, but found Pooch hunched over the sink again. A hand over his mouth, he turned and headed for the bathroom, snarling in fury when he found the door locked. One swift, desperate kick left the wooden door in splinters, and he barreled into the small room. Jensen came flying out, literally, landing on his ass and yelling in pain and anger. Sounds of throwing up came from the bathroom and the tech op backed away, scrambling backward on his behind, a look of pure horror on his face.

His work done, Cougar decided that discretion was the better part of valor and made a bid for freedom. Luckily, someone had put his wallet and apartment keys on the table by the door, so he grabbed these and ran.

** ** **

Finally staggering into his own apartment, Cougar stripped off his pants and boxers and stared at the large bandage on his ass. He knew better than to try to take it off yet, and wondered what kind of hell his team had decided to inflict upon him for the rest of his life. It could wait, he decided, and threw himself on his own bed, falling asleep almost instantly.

** ** **

When the bandage was ready to be removed, Jensen made sure the whole team was there to witness the spectacle. Cougar growled at him but got nothing more than an unrepentant grin in reply. Rolling his eyes, he pushed down his boxers and allowed the tech to carefully peel away the sticky plaster that was keeping the gauze pad in place. A delighted cackle came from Jensen as the tattoo was revealed in all its glory, along with uproarious laughter from the other three men. “What? What did you do?” Cougar demanded, trying to twist round far enough to see. Pooch wordlessly held out a mirror and Cougar saw his new ink for the first time.

A bright pink 'Go Petunias!' logo, complete with pink flower was now inked into his ass cheek, and was staring back at him cheekily, or so it seemed. Cougar's mouth fell open as he gazed at it. Then, with admirable self control, he turned to Jensen and said, “Be careful, amigo. I will get revenge and you will not enjoy it. This I promise you.”

Jensen's grin faltered as he saw how serious the sniper was. “Umm, yeah, I just remembered, I gotta go do...something. Really important, so I should just, yeah, I should go do that.” In a very manly fashion (he hoped), Jensen turned tail and fled.

Cougar regarded his pink petunia with a curious expression on his face, it was almost affectionate acceptance. Clay clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Could have been worse, I was going to put Daffy Duck on there.” With that he left, Pooch trailing after him, still chuckling. 

Roque gave Cougar a dangerous smile and said, “Don't think I won't be getting a little revenge of my own for the egg stunt. You watch your back, amigo.”

Cougar smiled grimly and said, “I'll be waiting to see what you come up with. Bet you won't top a pink petunia.”

“We'll see...” Roque said airily, and left. 

Cougar stared at his new tat for a while longer, then decided it actually wasn't that bad. But he was still going to think of something hideously embarrassing to do to Jensen, its was only fair after all.

 

Roque counted down the days on the calendar until the next birthday, Pooch's. He grinned, the sniper had no idea what was in store for him. 

** fin **


End file.
